


Daisy Chains And Laughs

by JaeNunyah



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:28:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22969258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaeNunyah/pseuds/JaeNunyah
Summary: Good drugs inspire unexpected interlude.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 26





	Daisy Chains And Laughs

"Roger, why are you so mean all the time?"

The question seems to waft as slowly and curl as delicately into his brain as does the drift of smoke from his cigarette into the still summer air. Roger considers what Dave's asking as he muses upon the circumstances that have placed the two of them in position for such a question to seem a sincere inquiry into his mindset and not the bitter attack on his character for which he'd customarily take it. Drunk or stoned, he still might have gone lolloping through the overgrown meadow, might have still been inspired to scramble atop the downed beech's massive bole to proclaim himself King Of The Mountain, and still have laughed in loopy paroxsyms at Nick's cartoony cowering when a fat, droning bumblebee had seemed to join their impromptu game, but neither of those familiar influences could have had him lying so contentedly here alone with Dave.

Stretched out on his back along the treetrunk's length, he hears the faraway laughter of Nick and Rick floating across the field but feels no need to stand and survey for their position as he usually would. All ambition seems to have left him, taking with it the desire to impose his version of order on surroundings, which at this moment appear beautiful, perfect and safe in a way he's never experienced. His bricks have reconfigured into a garden path upon which Dave might amble rather than a looming wall where every word from outside must be scrutinized as if it were a piton hammered in to weaken the mortar.

Roger'd been surprised Dave had stayed here with him when Nick and Rick had frolicked off giggling after butterflies, but even more so that he'd neither objected nor pulled away when Dave had started braiding flowers into his hair, which trailed over the beech's pitted bark, longer than he'd ever worn it before. He sits up slowly, swinging his lean legs around and scattering the blossoms Dave had piled beside him, observing how the shift of perspective seems to change the whole world. He'd been watching the clouds' morphing patterns and now sees the falling flowers drifting as languidly to the ground as had the white shapes across the pale blue sky.

His gaze sweeps the meadow bursting with blooms of goldenrod, queen anne's lace and daisies, daisies, daisies ("Shasta, oxeye, blackeyed susan..." echoes distantly from the analytical center still accessible through his happy haze, but he finds he needn't demonstrate his esoteric knowledge by speaking the classifications aloud). Still watching the rippling grasses and flowers, he answers Dave's question simply and honestly, without rancor.

"Frustration, I expect."

Dave, standing beside the fallen tree where Roger sits, moves in to lean against the trunk, their heads nearly on an even level, both in space and (for once) in mind. 

"What's so frustrating?" Dave asks quietly, sounding as if he really cares.

Roger tells him plainly but not unkindly "It's hard to always be the one who has to drive. Sometimes...MOST times...I feel like the only adult in the room with you fellows yipping about like a litter of puppies."

Roger pulls a lock of his hair around to examine the contrast of white petals against dark strands, causing Dave to remark "You look so pretty."

Roger laughs softly and answers not in his customary sharp scoff but almost ruefully "No drug in the world could make me believe THAT."

Dave appears to consider seriously before replying "You'd be prettier if you smiled more often."

Roger briefly mulls the veracity of that before mellowly declaring "I don't care about looking pretty."

Dave shyly admits "I do."

Roger's "I know." is not a superior sneer, merely a statement of fact.

"Do you think Rick's prettier than me?" Dave inquires.

This strikes Roger as a strange question, making him answer with one of his own. "Why would you ask me that?"

Dave toys with a single daisy in his hands as he says "Because you always tell the truth."

Roger finds this more flattering than any compliment of his appearance could ever be, and he phrases his response carefully. "The truth, Dave, is that I've never looked at either of you that way."

Dave tickles his ear with the flower he's holding, and Roger takes it so deftly away from him that the fragile stem does not break and not a single petal falls.

"You could look NOW." Dave offers playfully.

Roger leaves off studying the daisy (such a common, everyday object rendered so intricately fascinating), regards Dave levelly and pronounces "It wouldn't be a fair comparison now. Rick's not HERE for me to look at you both together."

Dave moves to try taking back the bloom, but Roger's reach is considerably longer and he holds it far enough away for Dave to abandon the effort, suggesting with a teasing smile "Well, you could look at ME now, then at Rick later. HE wouldn't know why but WE would. It could be our own little secret."

Roger believes Dave is unlikely to remember this conversation when they come down, so he sees no harm in humoring him now. He's not sure how long he deeply delves Dave's visage in silence (time is funny) before a pleading expression crosses the features he's been mapping.

"Tell me." Dave begs earnestly. "C'mon, Rog, you're so great with words. I wanna hear what you're looking at."

All this flattery is going to Roger's head (along with the chemicals swirling through it), so he cheerfully obliges, not trying to craft his observations artfully, just spinning out his thoughts.

"Your hair's dirty, but it looks very full and soft. Your eyes are nearly the same shade as the sky today. The cleft in your chin almost makes you look like an American superhero but your jaw's not so square. Your mouth..."

He stops short, for he usually uses 'mouth' to mean what is said, but here he means to describe...

"Your lips are as lushly curved as those of the most beautiful girls."

Dave puckers them at him in an air-smooch, then asks "Would you rather kiss me than Rick?"

This seems purely academic, so Roger answers agreeably. "I suppose so."

Dave leans in closer. "Do you want to kiss me NOW?"

This is more immediate, prompting Roger's honest reply. "Not especially."

Dave lowers his eyes, then peeks up winsomely through their lashes. "What if I wanted to kiss YOU?"

"Is this a hypothetical or a legitimate offer?" Roger needs to know the difference before he can answer that.

"It's a request." Dave says guilelessly, hopefully. "Please, Roger, may I kiss you?"

Roger has never been so sweetly asked for a kiss in his life. In fact, most of those he's shared have been at HIS initiation. He would normally view such a request...from Dave, of all people...with suspicion, but on this magnificent day of new experiences he's open to another.

"All right, then."

Dave brings his face within inches of of Roger's, but, with their lips just barely apart, Dave seems hesitant under Roger's intense regard, saying "Close your eyes."

Roger is kind, but extremely firm. "No."

Dave pouts slightly. "I want you to."

Roger remains resolute. "If you don't want me to watch, I don't want you to do it."

Dave closes his own eyes before bridging the gap, and Roger takes a few beats to emblazon the sensation of their initial contact, featherlight and petalsoft, before his hand drifts into the scatter of flowers beside him on the tree and starts to sort out perfect white-and-yellow daisies from the untidy strew of blooms with other shape and hue, fingers pulling order from the disarrayed bouquet much in the manner his mind is deconstructing the kiss.

Holding his head perfectly still, Roger notes how Dave tilts his own, moving his nose to the side so as to slip his mouth more firmly into place, and Roger's earlier allusion to driving comes back to him as he resolves to allow Dave free rein to shift and steer the direction and speed of this ride. Roger's previous experience with kissing has generally been an excercise in leading toward (or, in a few cases, away from) something more, and it's strangely freeing that this time he has no concerns about the route or the destination, no end result in mind...a relaxed passenger on a leisurely trip.

Roger begins to twine daisy stems together, operating by touch, since his eyes remain on the rapid, fluttery movements behind Dave's closed lids. Neither of them has recently shaved, and Roger fancies he can hear as well as feel the slight rasp of Dave's whiskers against his own, a stirring novelty.

As the long-stemmed blooms become a delicate chain in his not-at-all delicate hands, Roger tries to recall how he'd learned this task his fingers seem to understand. He remembers acquiring his other skills, but has no memory of ever weaving flowers before now. Dave's whole body has picked up a barely perceptible sway, causing the pressure of his lips on Roger's to ebb and swell rhythmically, like a heartbeat, and Roger wonders if it's a facet of Dave's kissing technique or if he's even aware he's doing it.

Roger hears their bandmates' progression through the field, now not only voices (Nick still laughing intermittently, Rick an indistinct murmur) but also the cracklesnap of footfalls as their frolics bring them closer. Dave makes a small noise in his throat that could be either passion or frustration, which Roger feels as vibration against his lips before their connection is gently broken and Dave draws back to open his eyes with a quiet sigh.

The two regard one another in stillness broken only by sounds of the fellows' romp taking them off someplace further away again. A rosy tinge flushes Dave's cheeks, whether from embarassment or excitement Roger cannot discern. When Dave opens his mouth to speak, Roger is sure he's either about to ask how he'd liked it...

["Never had better...from a man I don't much like."]

...or beg him not to tell Nick and Rick...

["I WILL...but only if they ASK."]

...but all Dave says is a soft, sincere "Thank you."

Roger doesn't answer, deeming his indulgence to stand as welcome enough. Dave's focus drops to the daisy chain in Roger's hands.

"That's beautiful."

Roger works a final blossom, joining ends to make a wreath, proclaiming "For you." as he raises it up to drop it onto Dave's head. The circumference is perfect, daisies spanning Dave's brow like a pagan diadem, and Roger admires not only his handiwork but also Dave's expression of starry affection.

"It's so nice." Dave says simply, stepping round to stand before him with hips between Roger's spread knees, and Roger has to agree...the beech and the bees, the kiss and the crown, this whole magical day.

"YOU'RE so nice..." Dave continues "...like this. I wish it could last forever."

"We'd be out of a job." Roger tells him matter-of-factly, earning a puzzled look.

"What do you mean?"

Roger explains "I couldn't possibly make the music...like this."

Dave's response is almost timid, as if he fears to awaken Mean Roger. "Would it be so terrible to let somebody ELSE make the music?"

Roger knows his answer, but pauses to think before giving it. Dave may well forget this day (or, if he doesn't, may sublimate feeling stupid about it into macho posturing), but Roger knows HE never will. Images from today will undoubtedly creep into his future composition, however obliquely veiled.

"Nobody else could make my music, Dave."

"Yeah." Dave acknowledges. "But still..." he carries on with a touch of melancholy in his voice. "I could get used to you this way."

Roger reaches out to lightly touch a daisy at Dave's temple, fingers trailing down the side of that lovely face in a tender caress. He wishes he knew how Dave is seeing him through those hugely dilated pupils in which he can see himself reflected uttering a single word.

"Don't."


End file.
